


Better to Beg Forgiveness

by Meilan_Firaga



Series: 25 Days of Christmas Fics - 2016 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: Sometimes, it's better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. At least, that's what Sansa's telling herself as she decks the halls of the office she shares with her boss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of my 2016 attempt at 25 Days of Christmas Fics. 
> 
> Prompt 1: Decorations

The idea came halfway through her traditional avoid-Black-Friday Die Hard marathon. She’d already dragged out her boxes of decorations and illuminated her tiny apartment with twinkle lights, paper garlands, and a tiny tree on one of her rickety end tables. The decor was admittedly not much, but Sansa hadn’t brought a lot of things with her when she moved. The two packed boxes were the few holiday items she couldn’t bear to part with, and she’d supplemented them with small items she’d gotten on sale in the early days of October. Only, now that she’d made her tiny living space as cosy and festive as possible she’d started to think about the dim, gray office she worked in throughout the week.

Sansa spent the days that followed both trying to work up the courage to ask and working on homemade pieces that went into a box labeled ‘Work - Christmas’. She never managed the asking part. On the morning of December first, however, she unlocked the door to the tiny office of Clegane Customs ( _“Our bark is worse than our bikes!”_ ) with a hefty box tucked under her arm. Somewhere in trying to figure out how to ask she’d transitioned into wondering _why_ she should have to ask. From there, it had devolved into grumbling, sudden determination, and entirely too many glasses of pink moscato. She deposited the box on the corner of her desk with a resounding thud and set to work.

Working as the receptionist of a custom motorcycle shop was not exactly high on Sansa’s list of dream jobs, but the pay was enough that she could live alone and they’d hired her almost immediately when she was desperately in need of a paycheck. Well, saying that they hired her was the wrong way to put it. The owner told his best friend and sub-contracted welder/fabricator that he needed a receptionist, said welder/fabricator did all the work, performed the interviews, and Sansa was the only applicant that didn’t rescind her application when she was introduced to owner/operator/mechanic Sandor Clegane. Either way, she had a job, and despite Sandor’s mood swings and general grumpiness it wasn’t a bad one.

Only, he didn’t much seem to like the idea of decoration. At least, he hadn’t liked it when she’d found an old photograph of he and Bronn,the aforementioned welder/fabricator, in one of the filing cabinets (oh, what a mess that paperwork had been) and had it framed to hang in the office. He also hadn’t liked it when she hung a small mirror in the hall so she could check her make-up through the day since there was no mirror in the bathroom. Of course, given the state of his face she supposed she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to see it around the office. Not, of course, that she thought there was anything wrong with his face. He just seemed like he was sensitive about it. Either it or trying to make the office of the shop look like something that didn’t come from a post apocalyptic film. He’d snarled when she’d brought in a pair of rugs so a certain someone wouldn’t track grease, oil, and all manner of dirt across the floor she’d so meticulously cleaned, too. Sandor was who she would have had to ask for permission to put up holiday decorations. He was the grumpy-puss that would probably wrinkle his nose and snarl that he didn’t want any Christmas frippery in his shop.

He was the reason she’d come in at six-o'clock in the morning even though the shop wasn’t due to open until nine to put up her decorations without his permission. Determined bravery, after all, could only go so far.

Sansa had just finished hanging the last of the garland and was sipping coffee in her desk chair when the rumble of a diesel engine roared into the lot at five minutes to nine. All of the surety she’d felt as she’d unpacked the many items she’d brought and scattered them artfully about the room evaporated in an instant as she watched the massive black truck back into the space next to her tiny, rust-colored Volkswagen. She watched with no small amount of apprehension as the door swung open and Sandor Clegane stepped down into the snow followed by an enormous gray dog. Sandor’s entire face was hidden from view, but even at a distance Sansa could see him shaking his head at her beat-up little car. The ancient bug was already covered in a heavy dusting of snow. The dog bounded in a circle at his owner’s feet before racing for the door of the shop’s office, and Sansa gripped her coffee mug tightly. She fixed a bright smile to her face and hoped it was close to the one she wore most mornings.

A gust of cold air followed Sandor through the door. He stopped short after two steps, reaching up to tug a worn woolen balaclava from his head. He looked around slowly, turning his head as he looked from the small tree on a corner table to his right to the row of stockings hanging under the high window in the wall to his left. The ruined corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly when his gaze lit on the stockings and Sansa felt a surge of pride. She’d made all five stockings herself when she couldn’t find any that suited the shop and its odd little group of workers--plus Stranger, the dog. They were made from old blue jeans she’d picked up at the thrift store and scraps of black leather she’d found in a hobby shop bargain bin. Finally, Sandor turned back to her. His one whole eyebrow arched up over the good half of his face as he considered her over the tinsel garland and twinkling lights she’d wrapped around the edge of her desk.

“Good morning!” she chirped as brightly as she could manage, smiling even more as she returned his gaze. The dog, Stranger, chose that moment to pad his way around her desk and shove his head in her lap, tongue lolling onto her jeans.

Sandor shook his head, glancing around the room once more. “It’s a little more subtle than I expected your idea of Christmas decorations to be,” he admitted. He sounded much more amused than Sansa had expected. She fought hard not to blush, but felt her cheeks heating anyway.

“I do have more, but I thought if I started simple you’d be less likely to get mad.”

A look shimmered across his face that she wasn’t sure she’d ever recognized on him before. It was there and gone, quick as a flash, but Sansa was struck with the sudden realization of what hurt looked like on her boss. She had no idea why he would be hurt that she’d expect him to get angry over decorations. He had, after all, thrown spectacular fits in the past. The object of one such fit was still hanging in its frame just behind her. Still, however briefly, the hurt showed.

“You can decorate however you want, little bird,” he assured her quietly, turning away from her to hang up his coat. “You spend more time in this office than any of the rest of us.” He pushed the sleeves of his flannel shirt up to his elbows, and growled out the next bit. “So go get the rest of your damn decorations. I’ll help you for half an hour if there’s anything you want put up high.”

Sansa practically squealed as she threw her boots on and skipped to the car for the rest of the boxes.


End file.
